"Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you--like music to the musician or Marxism to the communist---or else its nothing....." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Lord Byron
The Giaour
A Fragment of a Turkish Tale
A turban carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,
Whereon can now be scarcely read
The Koran verse that mourns the dead,
Point out the spot where Hassan fell
A victim in that lonely dell.
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee;
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine,
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew
At solemn sound of "Alla Hu!"
Yet died he by a stranger's hand,
And stranger in his native land;
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unavenged, at least in blood.
But him the maids of Paradise
Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come---their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.
But thou, false Infidel! shall writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe;
And from its torments 'scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis' throne;
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father's name---
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection's fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go---and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From Spectre more accursed than they!
This poem is a vampire poem which by Giaour means vampire. The poem in so many words is just the life of someone who has fought against a vampire. After becoming a vampire he sucks the blood of most humans. "Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell, The tortures of that inward hell, But first, on earth as Vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race, There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life." This quote says a lot about the vampire he has become. Although he has become a vampire he still retains some human traits. He wants to rule the vampires and become a king. There are some hidden messages here that suggest he still has feelings for his family but these cannot be confirmed.
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.
This poem is a testament to the poet's love for the poet's dead companion and apparently life partner. A line that shows a testament to his fallen love is the quote which says "The better days of life were ours, The worst can be but mine". This quote says in so many words that without her his days were worse than when she was with him. This means that with her his days were better and he throughly and significantly enjoyed his days much more when she was with him. Although the quote says this it seems that it has a hidden message which says that without her his days were lost. "The better days of life were ours, The worst can be but mine" says that without her his days were the worse which meant he was in a rut and when she came along not a day with her was better than a day without her.
PROMETHEUS
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus'd thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine--and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself--and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
This poem was about a titan whose name was Prometheus, Prometheus was the most cunning of all the gods and was so clever that he was granted the ability to foresee the future. He created humans and for some reason was punished for it. Through all the torture and hardships he still found a way to make it bearable for him. "In the endurance, and repulse, of thine impenetrable Spirit, the fate thou didst so well foresee, but would not to appease him tell". This quote in particular shows his endurance and abilities. Some key terms to take away from this are impenetrable spirit. He was obviously tortured for his creation of humanity and all the wrong doings humans have done. His spirit had to be impenetrable because of the torture he has been handed in exchange for creation. Through this the gods have passed judgement on him and he's being charged for his creations sins.
Statement About Lord Byron's Poetry
My poet was chosen for one reason because everything he writes makes me think twice about them. They also say things that make you see the struggle or so that you can feel hardship that the character is going through. His poems are like what I try to be individualistic because overtime I read one I can't think of another poem because its so risky, edgy and original. The poets name is Lord Byron.
My Poems
Ode To Turkey
My gut, as though I hadn't eaten lunch,
My head aches, and a gnawing hunger stings
Who gorged themselves on turkey legs and punch:
But been compelled to witness feasting kings
But only due to joy to wander free--
Tis not because of nature-given bliss,
Do widen my abyss,
That thou, a turkey, tender, fat and young,
Make emptier my stomach cavity,
Mocking me with disdain in gobble-tongue
Pain
As I lose breath
the pain finally starts to sink in
ouch I say as my bloody hand aches and throbs
I attempt to get up but my body and my brain says no
my head starts to hurt more and more
The shadows surround me as I begin to close my eyes
when I open my eyes I see only my blood, a broken table and a angry sister
her boyfriend hovering above my apologetic
my hand reaches out for the help of another
when someone helps me up I hear I told you so
then I attempt to swing again
Lights and Flames
On harbour waters shored with my true light
Through long hours the flare rippled the flame
Of day, the flood of light, its torch-lit might,
And filled with streaming silver fish; the wane
That roar of red whose flung light spread fire
Still left the white-wing gull aloft to round
On hills above the harbour, bled the mound
Of cloud above and hid the pale moon sire
Their swooping silent glide like flight of bird
A ragged dance around a storm of heard
Around a window light, the gulls still flew
At midnight; perhaps in to soul flame blew
As the bird flew we feel its joy, we pine
To wish for freedom to never be bind
Statement About My Poetry
I don't really have a statement about my poetry. This is because most of my poems are really random and completely written based on how I felt previously. For example if I say something about pain I was probably in pain. Also some of my poetry I do in spite of other poems like if I do a poem with a lot of clichés I do it so that its noticeable. My poems are meant to stand out from the others and remind people of no other poems.
"Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you--like music to the musician or Marxism to the communist---or else its nothing....." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Lord Byron
The Giaour
A Fragment of a Turkish Tale
A turban carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,
Whereon can now be scarcely read
The Koran verse that mourns the dead,
Point out the spot where Hassan fell
A victim in that lonely dell.
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee;
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine,
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew
At solemn sound of "Alla Hu!"
Yet died he by a stranger's hand,
And stranger in his native land;
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unavenged, at least in blood.
But him the maids of Paradise
Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come---their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.
But thou, false Infidel! shall writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe;
And from its torments 'scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis' throne;
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father's name---
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection's fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go---and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From Spectre more accursed than they!
This poem is a vampire poem which by Giaour means vampire. The poem in so many words is just the life of someone who has fought against a vampire. After becoming a vampire he sucks the blood of most humans. "Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell, The tortures of that inward hell, But first, on earth as Vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race, There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life." This quote says a lot about the vampire he has become. Although he has become a vampire he still retains some human traits. He wants to rule the vampires and become a king. There are some hidden messages here that suggest he still has feelings for his family but these cannot be confirmed.
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.
This poem is a testament to the poet's love for the poet's dead companion and apparently life partner. A line that shows a testament to his fallen love is the quote which says "The better days of life were ours, The worst can be but mine". This quote says in so many words that without her his days were worse than when she was with him. This means that with her his days were better and he throughly and significantly enjoyed his days much more when she was with him. Although the quote says this it seems that it has a hidden message which says that without her his days were lost. "The better days of life were ours, The worst can be but mine" says that without her his days were the worse which meant he was in a rut and when she came along not a day with her was better than a day without her.
PROMETHEUS
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus'd thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine--and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself--and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
This poem was about a titan whose name was Prometheus, Prometheus was the most cunning of all the gods and was so clever that he was granted the ability to foresee the future. He created humans and for some reason was punished for it. Through all the torture and hardships he still found a way to make it bearable for him. "In the endurance, and repulse, of thine impenetrable Spirit, the fate thou didst so well foresee, but would not to appease him tell". This quote in particular shows his endurance and abilities. Some key terms to take away from this are impenetrable spirit. He was obviously tortured for his creation of humanity and all the wrong doings humans have done. His spirit had to be impenetrable because of the torture he has been handed in exchange for creation. Through this the gods have passed judgement on him and he's being charged for his creations sins.
Statement About Lord Byron's Poetry
My poet was chosen for one reason because everything he writes makes me think twice about them. They also say things that make you see the struggle or so that you can feel hardship that the character is going through. His poems are like what I try to be individualistic because overtime I read one I can't think of another poem because its so risky, edgy and original. The poets name is Lord Byron.
My Poems
Ode To Turkey
My gut, as though I hadn't eaten lunch,
My head aches, and a gnawing hunger stings
Who gorged themselves on turkey legs and punch:
But been compelled to witness feasting kings
But only due to joy to wander free--
Tis not because of nature-given bliss,
Do widen my abyss,
That thou, a turkey, tender, fat and young,
Make emptier my stomach cavity,
Mocking me with disdain in gobble-tongue
Pain
As I lose breath
the pain finally starts to sink in
ouch I say as my bloody hand aches and throbs
I attempt to get up but my body and my brain says no
my head starts to hurt more and more
The shadows surround me as I begin to close my eyes
when I open my eyes I see only my blood, a broken table and a angry sister
her boyfriend hovering above my apologetic
my hand reaches out for the help of another
when someone helps me up I hear I told you so
then I attempt to swing again
Lights and Flames
On harbour waters shored with my true light
Through long hours the flare rippled the flame
Of day, the flood of light, its torch-lit might,
And filled with streaming silver fish; the wane
That roar of red whose flung light spread fire
Still left the white-wing gull aloft to round
On hills above the harbour, bled the mound
Of cloud above and hid the pale moon sire
Their swooping silent glide like flight of bird
A ragged dance around a storm of heard
Around a window light, the gulls still flew
At midnight; perhaps in to soul flame blew
As the bird flew we feel its joy, we pine
To wish for freedom to never be bind
Statement About My Poetry
I don't really have a statement about my poetry. This is because most of my poems are really random and completely written based on how I felt previously. For example if I say something about pain I was probably in pain. Also some of my poetry I do in spite of other poems like if I do a poem with a lot of clichés I do it so that its noticeable. My poems are meant to stand out from the others and remind people of no other poems.